The rain tapped gently against the tin roof, a steady rhythm that filled the tiny room with soft music.
Outside, the world blurred into gray mist — fields, fences, trees all melted together until there was nothing left but the sound of water and the smell of damp earth.
Inside, in the corner of the little house, a boy sat curled up on a tattered armchair.
He was small, no more than eight or nine, his knees pulled tightly against his chest.
In his hands, he clutched a lantern — old, rusted, its glass clouded by age.
Across from him, an old woman hummed a tune.
Her hair was silver and wild, her hands worn and cracked from a lifetime of work.
She moved slowly, carefully, stitching something in her lap with trembling fingers.
The boy watched her.
He always watched her —
the way her mouth twitched when she concentrated,
the way she laughed softly under her breath when the needle pricked her finger,
the way she paused now and then, staring out into the rain like she was remembering something too far away to ever reach again.
Finally, she set the sewing aside.
She leaned back with a heavy sigh and looked at him — really looked at him — with those bright, tired eyes that seemed to see everything.
Grandmother:
"You hold onto that lantern, Calen."
Her voice was rough but warm, like a worn blanket.
Grandmother:
"Not because it's pretty. Not because it's old.
But because… sometimes, people forget there's still light around them."
The boy frowned, confused.
Calen:
(small voice)
"Even when it's raining?"
She smiled, reaching over to tap the side of the lantern with one crooked finger.
Grandmother:
"Especially when it's raining."
The boy stared at the flame inside — tiny, stubborn, refusing to go out even as the storm raged outside the cracked windows.
He didn't understand everything she meant.
Not yet.
But something in her voice — the way it cracked, the way her hand lingered on the lantern a little too long — made him clutch it tighter.
Calen:
"I'll keep it safe."
She laughed, the sound hoarse but sweet.
Grandmother:
"You'll do more than that, little one.
You'll carry it for others too.
When they can't see their way."
The boy nodded solemnly.
Calen:
"Promise."
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, the boy and the old woman sat together, the only light between them a flickering flame and a promise too big for either of them to fully understand.
Years later,
when the house was gone,
and the fields were gone,
and the old woman was gone,
the boy — now older, quieter, lonelier — still carried that battered old lantern.
Not because he understood everything yet.
But because sometimes… promises are the only light you have left.